The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  ‘Then drink your tea.’

  ‘I’m not thirsty.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He moved away. ‘I’ll come back for you later.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied stiffly. But when he’d gone, she thirstily drank the tea, feeling a great need for it, still feeling the lingering, warm touch of his hands on her shoulders.

  She poured another cup and drank that more slowly, ate a sandwich a little too quickly, then another, more thoughtfully. Theo hadn’t touched the one he had picked up. It lay beside the plate. Nor had he drank any tea. He would no doubt have another lot sent up to him. As with her, the act depended on him being one hundred per cent alert.

  Their contract at the Oxford ended at Christmas. The Empire in Leicester Square was putting on Aladdin and had asked to have the Great Theodore as the evil magician, but he was having none of that.

  ‘My work is above that sort of thing,’ he told Jack Simmons.

  ‘The trouble is, Theo, it’s the panto season. It’s a time for kiddies, and variety takes a back seat. What else can you expect?’

  Theodore was emphatic. ‘I’ll not demean myself playing some damned pantomime magician, not after having now risen to top the bill at one of the foremost theatres in London. I will accept the Empire if they give me my own spot as an addition to their damned pantomime. But not to be in it.’

  Jack Simmons pursed his lips and leaned back in his swivel chair. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But you can’t start taking a back seat again now. You need to be working continuously.’

  He leaned forward. ‘I tell you what. I’ll ask the Empire to think about what you ask for during the two weeks of pantomime. But it’s the same everywhere at this time of year, especially in the West End. If they won’t, we could look at Leeds possibly. Or Manchester.’

  ‘I will not be fobbed off,’ Theo said for an answer. ‘Now as a leading performer I no longer run from one music hall to another, like some second-rate artist. My contracts must be for exclusive appearances at one hall.’

  ‘The panto season’s very short,’ Simmons patiently pointed out. ‘A couple of weeks in the provinces, and I’ll make sure your fame is spread back to London and when you return they’ll be clamouring for you, take my word.’

  ‘I have taken this city by storm and he talks of Leeds,’ Theo raged to Emma. ‘I am virtually on equal footing with such names as Ellen Terry, Adelaine Page, Maud Allan, Henry Irvine, Albert Chevalier. It is crucial that London does not forget me. I need to be here, not in some Godforsaken city like Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool …’

  Not listening to anything else, all Emma could think of was this string of provinces. She’d hated it that last time, always on the move, never in any one hotel for long. Not seeing her mother for the time being, though Mum had settled down nicely, could estrange them all over again. But maybe it wouldn’t be too long before they were back in London.

  It didn’t look as though she’d see Mum even on Christmas Day, because Theo was taking her to a party, insisting she go with him. ‘There are people you need to meet,’ he said.

  There had been quite a few social occasions these last weeks, society gatherings that people in the theatre seemed unable to do without. She’d grown to enjoy them, had made several friends, had begun to talk their language, laughed over the things they laughed at, understood their jokes, their witty asides, joined in to find herself popular. So she didn’t recoil from Theo taking it for granted that she’d be with him on this occasion. Just that she felt guilty about Mum, and on Christmas afternoon rushed over to see her.

  These days her mother was more amenable, enjoying an easier life. To Emma’s relief she showed no animosity when told about the party.

  ‘He’s been invited by some friends,’ Emma told her. ‘But we don’t have to arrive until eight-thirty tonight, so I can stay most of the afternoon.’

  ‘I see.’ But it didn’t detract from her feelings of guilt.

  ‘I’d sooner be here with you.’

  ‘Why? It’d be too quiet for yer.’

  Mum had never been one for social gatherings, not even when Dad was alive. Neither had family, Dad an orphanage boy, Mum’s two brothers dying in infancy, her sister later in life, unmarried. Her mother, Emma’s grandmother, had been taken years ago with pneumonia, her grandfather a year after that. So Mum was used to quiet Christmases, never taking up offers from neighbours to join their extensive family parties. That Ben would go out enjoying himself didn’t seem to bother her either.

  ‘Won’t he be here to keep you company?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I’d sooner ’im stay out if he’s goin’ ter come ’ome roaring drunk an’ upsetting everyone,’ she said. ‘So far he’s kept on the right side of Mrs Blacker. I don’t want ter be turned out of ’ere now we’ve found a decent place ter live at reasonable rent.’

  She seemed to have overlooked the fact that it was her daughter who’d found it and who paid the rent, but it wasn’t worth bringing up. Instead she hoped that Mrs Blacker, realising Mum would be on her own, might ask her down for a glass of something – a Gentile Christmas no barrier to a bit of festive goodness of heart – along with the single woman in the two rooms below Mum and the couple occupying the basement, the ground floor, of course, being used by Mrs Blacker herself.

  Emma refrained from mentioning that she could be out of London in the New Year.

  It was so nice sitting here with her in this cosy room, enjoying tea and cake – Mum could afford to buy cake now. The room was large enough for Ben to have a proper bed, in one corner, partitioned off by a small screen for privacy and with a small wardrobe for his own use. The screen half drawn across, she could see he was keeping his part tidy, which was a surprise. Though much of it was probably due to Mum seeing his things put away and his bed made, the area swept and dusted, like the rest of the room. At last Mum could enjoy the satisfaction of tidiness without seeing it ruined by dirt and soot floating down like black snow from the railway to penetrate every corner and crevice of those old rooms she’d fought so hard to keep clean.

  ‘I’ve got you a Christmas present,’ Emma said, finishing her cake to pick up the grip she’d brought with her. From it she extracted two small, brown paper packages. ‘One for Ben too.’

  Mum took them as if they might burn her hand. ‘I ain’t got nothing fer you,’ she said. ‘Only you’ve got everything.’

  Emma ignored what sounded like a sly dig at what she did, her mother’s disdainful references to ‘theatrical lady’ always popping into Emma’s mind. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said evenly. ‘I enjoyed getting something for you and Ben.’

  She watched her mother look from the packages to her and back to them, turning them over and over. ‘Well, go on,’ she urged. ‘Open the one with your name on it.’

  The brown paper carefully torn off revealed a brightly coloured layer underneath. To Emma’s urging it was slowly removed from the blue, flat box it covered.

  ‘Oh, Em!’

  There was a gasp of surprise and mild censure at having done such a thing as the lid was lifted and the blue, fine cashmere wool bed-jacket taken out to be held up by the shoulders in wonder, its fine texture felt. But the wonder had changed back to censure, this time not quite so mild.

  ‘When am I supposed ter wear this?’

  ‘When you’re sitting in bed, of course,’ Emma said.

  ‘I’ve never ’ad the time fer sitting in bed. When I wake up I get up.’

  ‘Now you have the time. You don’t have to work any more. You’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘An’ it gets boring at times.’

  Emma compressed her lips, her gift forgotten. She’d done her very best for her mother, these nice little rooms, a decent landlady, money for Mum to buy clothes, feed herself adequately, not have to scrimp and scrape any more, and all she could say was that she was bored. Emma bit back a retort that if she was all that keen on slaving for a penny or two, she could go out selling flowers again.

 
; Instead, she said, ‘You could join a women’s club. Make friends. I think there’s one around here where they have lectures, debates, sometimes dancing and singing, play dominoes and learn hobbies, or just chat.’

  ‘What ’ave I got ter debate about?’ Mum turned up her nose and Emma felt her temper getting dangerously shorter. Why was she always like this?

  She had been reaching for another piece of cake, cake Mum could now afford. Withdrawing her hand, she got up from the table to leave before her temper really did get the better of her. She’d looked forward to spending several hours with Mum, had come with the best of intentions and now it was all spoiled, and none of it her fault.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said briskly. ‘Enjoy the present if you can. It might be useful if you’re ever in bed with a cold.’

  ‘You ain’t been ’ere five minutes.’ Her mother still sat there, looking up at her, the bed-jacket still held between her fingers.

  ‘I’ve got things to do. And it’s getting dark. And I’ve got this party to go to.’

  Her mother sat where she was, surveying her with that discerning look she sometimes adopted. ‘He says yer got to?’

  ‘No … I mean, well, he likes me there and I meet lots of his friends.’

  ‘You used ter ’ave yer own friends, ’ere. The ones yer’ve left be’ind. Lizzie Wallis was once yer best friend, she still lives down the road.’

  ‘I’ve made other friends. I don’t suppose she wants to talk to me now.’

  ‘She’s got a young man now.’

  Did it matter?

  Mum’s tone was quiet and deliberate. ‘And you’ve got one of yer own, though not so young. Thought yer’d ’ave done better for yerself. A pretty face like yours, yer should of found a nice young man, not wasted it on an old one.’

  Emma sat down abruptly. ‘Mum, Theo isn’t my fiancé. We work together, that’s all.’

  Her mother did not reply, but the look she gave her said it all. Emma could almost hear those disapproving, disparaging, condemning words as to where her daughter had gone to, where she was going to, and worst of all whom she was going there with. She could almost hear the accusation, ‘Yer work tergether and I bet yer sleep tergether too.’

  ‘I hope you get to like your present,’ she said, getting to her feet once more, unable to keep the terseness from her tone. ‘And that Ben likes his too. Tell him it’s a cardigan.’

  Her mother stood up too. ‘Pity yer can’t stay longer,’ she said. ‘But it was nice to see yer.’

  She seemed to mellow suddenly, looking at Emma with an unusually soft expression. ‘Enjoy yer party, Em.’

  ‘I expect I will,’ Emma said curtly.

  ‘And have a nice Christmas.’

  Emma was suddenly surprised as her mother came round the table and planted a kiss on her cheek, something she rarely did.

  ‘I mean it, Em, ’ave a nice time.’

  ‘I’d sooner be here, with you, Mum.’ This time those sentiments were genuine, that one small kiss bringing moisture to her eyes and longing to her heart. If only she could take Mum with her to this party – a ridiculous idea, Mum would be like a fish out of water and she wouldn’t thank her.

  ‘I wish …’ she broke off, not knowing quite what she wished. ‘Will you be all right, Mum? You should have company at Christmas time.’ Her mother smiled, another rare thing.

  ‘There’s an ’ouse-full of people ’ere. Nice people, decent. I’ve made friends with ’em, and no doubt someone’ll look in. And I bet all the tea in China, Ben’ll be ’ome soon as he’s ’ungry. I’ve got a nice bit of beef ready ter cook in the oven. You go an’ enjoy yerself, if yer can. I’ll give ’im yer present.’

  The Christmas party was being held by Mr Arthur Lloyd, an entrepreneur, shareholder in several London variety theatres, and friend of Theo’s from many years back. The large Victorian rooms were crowded and stuffy and full of chatter and high-pitched laughter, through which a string quartet was having a struggle to be heard. Emma moved around talking to this one and that.

  Someone she knew vaguely was signalling to her from one side of the room, the woman stretching her neck and waving for her to join the people she was with, no doubt keen on introducing her to someone. Emma began threading her way towards them as the woman turned back to the group.

  Through a momentary gap in the mass of beautiful, flowing dresses and formal evening suits, she caught a glimpse of Theo. He was standing a way off and there was a pretty girl with him, her arms about his neck. He did not appear to be objecting as she brought her face close to his.

  A stab of jealousy caught Emma, so intense that it took her by surprise. She was only half aware of the high and excitable female voice assailing her over the chatter.

  ‘My dear! Amelia, my dear! I had no idea you were here.’

  Turning towards the voice with its faintly Scottish ring, Emma saw an animated young woman skirting a small knot of people to reach her.

  Marie Loftus was in her late twenties, an actress and music hall artiste with amazing powers of mimicry. Emma had met her at several parties and they’d struck up a friendly acquaintance for all Emma was some ten years younger. Marie would be playing Peter Pan at the Duke of York’s Theatre come the New Year. Small and petite, she was suited to the part with her heart-shaped face, pert nose, teasing lips and dark, twinkling eyes.

  ‘Aren’t you with Theodore?’ Marie was asking. ‘I’ve just caught sight of him over there with some woman or other. I have no idea who she is. I thought you and he must have parted company. In fact I even got the idea that he was back working with that young man, Martin Page, who used to be with him. I did see Martin Page here earlier on, and assumed …’

  Emma interrupted her with a light little laugh. Martin Page was here?

  ‘No, Theo and I are still together. But he went wandering off a little while ago. There are so many people he knows and I lost him in this crowd. But I’ve just caught sight of him.’

  She automatically looked in that direction. There he was, the fair-haired girl’s slender arms draped around his neck. She looked like a chorus girl who had probably wheedled an invitation from someone aware of her obvious reputation, Emma thought with jealous vindictiveness. Marie’s gaze had followed hers. She turned back, presenting Emma with a bright, reassuring smile.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind him, dearie. He has probably had a little too much by now. He can be quite the masher when he wants. He once made advances to me, you know. That was when his wife was alive. She quite caned him about it. They’d quarrel, you know, quite fiercely, but usually for the way she could attract the men rather than he attracting the ladies.’

  ‘You said Martin Page is here?’ queried Emma, changing the subject but finding herself unexpectedly interested in him.

  Marie gazed about. ‘He is here somewhere. He’s usually to be seen skulking wherever Theodore goes. No, that’s unkind. A handsome young man like that doesn’t skulk, does he? Odd, the way Theo dropped him. I wonder why?’

  She gave a rippling laugh, eyes already alighting on another quarry. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, dearie, there’s Miss Gitana, Gertie, I simply must go and speak to her.’

  Left alone, Emma found herself glancing around for any glimpse of Martin Page. What was he doing here? She gathered that he attended many parties, but was it only when Theo was there? Trying not to acknowledge a strange stirring of anticipation, she continued searching. Finally giving up, she looked back to where Theo and the girl had been standing, but the girl had gone. And so had Theo.

  Emma made her way to where she had last seen him. Had he gone up those stairs that curved by a cluster of parlour palms to some room above? Previously unoccupied and silent after the noise down here, was it now being taken advantage of by him and that girl? Were they even now lying together on a sofa, its back concealing them from any interloper?

  People came and spoke to her. She responded as sociably as possible, smiled brightly, frequently taking a glass of champagne f
rom a tray held by a liveried servant. Warmed by the champagne and growing more light-headed, she watched the wide, curved, carpeted staircase as much as she could, and finally saw him. A tall, upright, commanding figure, he came down the carpeted steps at a measured pace, his eyes scanning the thronged room below. Of the young woman there was no sign.

  It was then that she saw Martin, approaching her in the wake of a servant who with a tray of drinks was ploughing a pathway between the groups.

  ‘Martin,’ she said, as he reached her, while the waiter continued onward. Even as she spoke, her eyes were on Theo who had paused at the foot of the staircase to glance about. Martin too had seen him and when he spoke it was as if he were trying to get all his words out at once.

  ‘I heard you and he would be here. I need to know if you are OK.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said

  ‘I attended the Oxford a couple of times to see you perform. You’re very good, very co-ordinated. He’s taught you well. Is he treating you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’

  He was pressing a visiting card into her hand. ‘If you are ever in any trouble, of any sort, here’s my address. I’ve taken a flat in London, given up working for my father. Can’t stand the tedium. Caused a bit of upset but I need the theatre.’

  So it wasn’t her welfare he was concerned about, it was to use her to speak to Theo for him.

  ‘He may be treating you all right now,’ he went on, ‘but I’ll be around if ever …’

  He broke off and she followed his gaze to see Theo moving towards her.

  When she looked back, Martin had gone. She did not smile as Theo reached her, her mind imagining him and the unknown girl together, Martin forgotten.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  Theo ignored the question. ‘I saw you with a young man.’

  ‘Just one of the guests.’ It was no lie, but it was prevarication. She saw him frown. He knew who it was and now it became a lie. She squirmed and hastily resorted to her earlier accusation. ‘I asked you where you were.’

  ‘If I have failed to be attentive to you, my dear, I apologise,’ he said stiffly. ‘I was talking business with someone.’